


Number on the Loose

by slightlyjillian



Series: Numbers [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-26
Updated: 2010-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyjillian/pseuds/slightlyjillian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stranger gives young Trowa a change in perspective. Prequel to the Numbers series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Number on the Loose

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing inappropriate exactly, but Trowa is 12.

He was very, very lost. Unable to recognize any of the buildings around him, twelve year-old Trowa Barton sat with his toes facing the wet asphalt of the alley and his back pressed against the brick of the building. Catherine had always told him to stay put if he wandered off again. She said _again_ because it had happened before. He would see an interesting bird or a squirrel or a pair of shoes then his legs set to autopilot and followed.

He had done it _again_. So he sat where he was, not remembering what had caught his attention this time. Only that he'd refused to hold her hand, he was far too old for that nonsense.

Trowa stared at his fingers, resting the back of each hand against his pulled up knees. His legs had been getting longer, so had his fingers. They were thin like pencils and somewhat dirty at the tips where he'd balanced himself when sitting down in the dirty street. He didn't want to think what the ground was doing to his clothing. Perhaps he should have sat at one of the tables of an outdoor cafe, except they'd eventually learn he didn't have money, he was lost and then they'd be well meaning and contact his parents. Calling his father was a terrifying thought.

_Catherine_, Trowa squeezed his eyes shut. _Please find me first._

"Oh piss me." The snarly tone was close by. "Fantastic, just _fantastic_, pipsqueak. If I have to share then make room. Scoot over."

A shoe kicked Trowa's foot and he looked up into the scowling features of a boy a few years older, several inches taller and smoking what looked like a done in cigarette. The stranger spit the cigarette a few feet away into a puddle. He didn't have an obvious weapon, not that Trowa had anything of value on him to steal, and the older boy had a dark book bag strap visible over one shoulder. He dropped the sack to the ground and then sat against the wall, pushing against Trowa as he did so.

They sat in quiet, a warm place developing along Trowa's right shoulder where the older boy's heat eased some of the evening chill.

"Did you run away?" He asked, eventually. Trowa had already decided that the dark-haired boy was a street kid. He smelled like fast food which barely covered over the unwashed body odor. The line of his jaw was lightly covered in a soft beard of a few week's growth, which made Trowa jealous and he didn't answer the question.

"It's okay if you did." The older boy sat forward, reaching for the bag between his legs and removing the comfortable heat of his presence. Trowa shivered. "I won't ask you why. I'm sure you probably have your reasons, and no one has to understand why. They're just your reasons and that's all that matters." He violently kicked out one leg and probably bruised himself as he hit his back against the wall. Trowa watched the other boy, curious what thought would make a body flinch like that. He was also glad to have the boy's heat back.

"Food?" A dirty hand offered a foil wrapped rectangle to Trowa's still closed fist. "It's not frosted. I sweated over taking it at all and in the end I didn't even nab the frosted kind." He sounded disappointed, bitter.

Trowa tore the foil seeing two already broken poptarts inside. He made a smaller break at one of the corners and put it into his mouth. His lips were sore and chewing made them ache. He licked his lips, but the wind chapped them soon after.

"You should have at least worn something more practical," the boy observed. Trowa guessed the stranger was seventeen or eighteen, but the purple rings under his dark, sad eyes might have made him look older. "Is this what your mother makes you wear?" He pulled at the thin, pale pink sleeve near Trowa's wrist. Then the dirty hand stayed over Trowa's, the street kid's warmer fingers casually wrapping around the younger boy's in a nonthreatening, quiet gentleness.

"Sister," Trowa responded startling himself. He had meant to keep quiet and spoke without thinking. He yanked his hand back, but immediately regretted the entire series of events. He'd actually felt kind of safe just before he spoke.

"It's okay," the stranger said, looking away. "You saw I do that too."

"Someone hurt you?" Trowa asked, watching his breath escape and trying to ignore the cracking of his lips.

"Who hasn't been hurt or hurt someone else?"

"I didn't run away." Trowa shook his head, then twisted to look at his companion. "I got lost. I'm not sure where I am and I need to get back before they notice I'm gone."

"If someone's there to notice, I'm sure they have by now." The stranger's face was very close and Trowa wasn't certain he understood the look he was being given.

"Doesn't matter, I need to..." Trowa stopped because he really didn't expect to be kissed just then. His lips hurt so he didn't move them, and he blinked very slowly so as to watch the movement of the dark eyebrows that were so close. Every point of connection between their bodies seemed on fire. The stranger's breath was hot against his mouth. The sensation was peculiar and interesting, something he'd thought about with Catherine--except that kissing Catherine wasn't allowed. Maybe this wasn't allowed either, but he wasn't certain he cared anymore. He wanted something for himself. A connection where Trowa had been given permission to feel however he wanted. The stranger had said the reasons didn't matter.

Trowa pulled back, sniffling. He didn't realize he was crying until a rough thumb rubbed against his cheekbones.

"Hey, don't do that. I'm not..." The older boy seemed angry, but not the sort of anger that Trowa knew from seeing his parents at home. The dark-haired stranger swallowed, as if taking his own anger and directing it inside instead of projecting out. "Damn, I'm sorry."

Trowa shrugged. "Doesn't matter." And it didn't.

"I'll make it... up to you. Where do you live?"

"I don't know the address," Trowa frowned. They moved often enough. Mother said Father was picky about their neighbors. Catherine said it was because Father didn't want the old neighbors to find him. "I'm new to the city."

"Anything you do know?" The stranger leaned in and wrapped an arm around Trowa's shoulders. He couldn't feel his toes inside his shoes. The squeeze of the other boy's arms kept Trowa from another fit of trembling.

Trowa thought for a long moment while listening to a car drive past while splashing through a puddle. The headlights only illuminated the corner of the building but they were safely in the shadows. Sounds of the city at dusk.

"The church bell," Trowa said, louder than he had intended and sitting upright. But before he spoke again, he settled back into the crook of the waiting arm. "The building that was changed into a subway station, with the elevator. I know how to get home from there."

"Yeah, I know where that's at."

"Is it far?"

"I'll get you there."

"And I'll get you back." Trowa promised.

The other boy shook his head with a snort, "Whatever. You don't know what you're talking about. A nice boy like you has no business with a... man like me. I'm going to be a safecracker. And you? You're going to be a police officer and shoot guys like me."

"I wouldn't _shoot_ you." Trowa shook his head. The older boy stood up and then offered his hand to help Trowa. The wind blew straight through his lightweight slacks and thin jacket. "I'd just come up with some other way to punish you."

The dark-haired stranger laughed at the sky. Then he laced their fingers, "Come on." With his other arm, he settled his bag onto his shoulder. Holding hands with this boy didn't seem silly nonsense to Trowa, so he didn't let go.

And if at the church Trowa squeezed their hands too tight or reached up for a second kiss, he decided it was only right to stake his claim.


End file.
